February 4th is...
February 4, 2015 was the day I started chemo.
Happy freakin' anniversary!
Last night, for kicks, I did the math: 466 hours. That's how many hours I've spent hooked up to a chemo drip in the last year. (And I took just over a six month break.)
It hasn't always (or... uhm... ever, frankly) been fun, but I'm still here.
The good news? The damage to my nails from the first four rounds has almost grown out. Another month or two, and the soft and flaky part of my previously super human nails will have grown out. Woot!
The not-so-good news? This is what my skin looks like, 10 days into this new regimen.
And that's WITH copious amounts of super expensive lotion, applied daily. My body is falling apart. Literally.
The last twelve months have been doozies. Chemo's turned my life on edge in a way that I couldn't have possibly prepared myself for. It's been an unspeakably difficult year, but I'm grateful for modern medicine. Even as I spend our anniversary in bed with a heating pad on a broken rib, I am grateful for multiple doctors and several chemotherapies that have been successful in other patients with my diagnosis.
Hope springs eternal that this time next year, February 4th will be chemo-free for me. That my nails and my hair and my skin will be restored, and that some version of this drug that I hate with my whole soul will have, at the very least, stopped the growth of the tumor that is currently trying to kill my body. (I mean, I'd take total eradication in a heartbeat, but... I'd also be pleased as punch if it would just stop getting worse.)